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Show in my father's house/ 169 Often, when Aunt Helga wanted to go to her bedroom to rest or change clothes, she would find that someone was using the bathroom which stood between the hallway and the only entrance to her bedroom. Usually it was one of my mother's children - the odds being in favor of that - and Aunt Helga would knock first, pound a few moments later, and yell, finally, regardless of our state of concentration, stubbornness or undress. "You Come Out of the Bathroom This Instant!" We soon forgot to blame the short-sighted architect and came to blame each other for having the most ordinary needs for privacy. Aunt Helga tried to provide a firm hand in our household, but my father's absence was keenly felt. My brothers stayed out too late. Moreover, they balked at turning their earnings over to Aunt Helga. "Look here," Aunt Helga exploded, having walked to and from work because of the empty gas tank. "Deanna and Isaac always put gas in the car. Why can't you kids? What makes you so good you don't have to contribute to the family welfare?" My mother went about her housework, head bowed, eyes red. I knew she hated having Aunt Helga provide for us. "I'm grateful for all she does," I had heard her say, more than once. "But I hate to impose." When we went off alone into her bedroom to read or talk, my mother looked at us searchingly. "What gets into you kids?" she asked. Neither she nor Aunt Helga could understand why we weren't naturally good - as they had always been. |